Second Chance

Chapter Thirty-Two: Rock of Ages

Undisclosed Location

Berlin, Germany

15^th September 1940

The funeral procession wove its way through the Berlin streets, hidden below clouds as the first rain of the autumn hit Berlin. From his place atop the stand, Himmler watched as Hitler saluted the marching Wehrmacht troopers, before retreating from the rain and heading back down to the bunker. Himmler let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding; had the RAF attacked, they would have stood a good chance of wiping out the German High Command.

He followed the Fuhrer thought the winding corridors, still being dug ever deeper by slave labour, until they reached the main briefing room. Hitler’s female secretary had done her best to make him comfortable, but the room was still cold, even with the heater. Himmler shivered and drew his dress uniform around his body; Hitler didn’t seem to feel the cold.

“We have just buried a fine man and a loyal servant,” Hitler said. There was a long moment of silence; almost all of the room had believed the statement. Himmler, who knew better, smiled inside. “The war must proceed. Field Marshal?”

Field Marshal Walter Von Brauchitsch jumped. A competent officer, he was entirely dominated by Hitler. “Mein Fuhrer,” he said, saluting.

Hitler smiled. “What is the current status of Operation Rommel?”

Brauchitsch scowled; Himmler sympathised, although for different reasons. Hitler had changed the name of the operation five times so far. “We have moved up the heavy guns, under General Karl Becker, with the exception of the big rail gun, which suffered an… ah, accident.”

Hitler’s face clenched with fury. A roving RAF plane had spotted the big gun on its tracks and bombed it, destroying both the gun and the rail tracks below. Several other planes had snarled up the rail network completely, although not in time to prevent Becker from concentrating most of his force.

“The Spanish have refused to accept large numbers of ground troops from us,” Brauchitsch continued. “They have provided the Blue Division, under General Julio Cordoba, a hero of their recent war. Franco insists on taking the fortress himself, and only accepted our guns under heavy pressure.”

“Excellent,” Hitler said. Brauchitsch looked nervous. “It matters not who holds the fortress, so long as the sea lanes are closed.” He looked over at Ribbentrop, who smiled confidently. “And our partners?”

“The Soviets inform us that their attack on Iran will be launched in five days,” Ribbentrop said confidently. Himmler met his eyes and was pleased to see the incompetent man flinch. “The Japanese are still making preparations, but we expect them to launch in another week or so.”

Himmler frowned. “Could the little yellow men be planning to betray us?”

Ribbentrop hesitated. “Of course not,” Hitler thundered. “This is their one opportunity to break loose from the shackles of the mongrel nation of half-bloods,” he pronounced. “They will follow their own interests; have we not given them enough information to ensure their success?”

Just the information guarantees nothing, Himmler thought. “They have also requested access to information on the nuclear program,” he said. “Is it your wish that we share the information?”

Hitler considered, but not for long. “The secrets are not secret to the enemy,” he said. “As long as they share with us, and not with Stalin, then we will share what we have.”

“General Becker reports that he can launch the attack at any moment,” Brauchitsch said. “Should it be launched tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Hitler said. “Once it is done, then we will be able to begin rolling up Africa and then the Middle East.”

Gibraltar

Mediterranean Sea

16^th September 1940

General Robert Flynn lifted his binoculars and gazed across the border into Spain, knowing that there was no way that the fortress could be held. As soon as Franco’s wavering became known, the fortress had been sealed off and the population, all those who would go, had been removed to Saudi. The provisional government there had been delighted to see experienced ports men to assist in the rebuilding, and guards to guard the new farms and desalination plants. A great deal had been achieved in twelve days and Flynn would have liked to have seen it, just once.

Perhaps I will, he thought, and winced. Honour demanded that they made a fight for Gibraltar, but he was too much a professional to have any hope of victory. The War Cabinet had been undecided, until Hanover had ruled in favour of making a token defence. All of the previous administration had been removed; there were only one hundred men and the residents who had refused to leave.

He lowered his binoculars, watching as the sun slowly appeared over the horizon. It wouldn’t be long now. He smiled; he was almost looking forward to it. The British Army of 2015 had never had to hold a fortress; the Germans – or more likely their Spanish allies – had no idea what was waiting for them. With modern weapons, his tiny force could have held, but that wasn’t the point. The point was to make the Spanish hurt.

His radio buzzed. “General?”

“Yes, Tom,” he said. The young civilian had been seconded to his force, one of the thousands who had volunteered for service. “What’s happening?”

“Perimeter sensors are reporting advancing figures, across the border,” Tom said. he held no military rank; Flynn had brevetted him as a Private in order to convince the PJHQ that he could join the defence force.

“They have to be mad,” Flynn said, running down to the command centre. The defenders had strung communication cables all over the fortress, multiplying their forces tenfold. The Contemporaries had dug deep into the rock; the civilians who had refused to leave were already down in the bunkers. He glanced at the report; at least sixty figures were moving across the neutral territory between Gibraltar and Spain.

“It seems that way,” Tom said. He tapped the control for the remote machine guns, newly manufactured in Britain. “Permission to open fire.”

“Fire,” Flynn said.

General Karl Becker was not an easy man to love. His obsession with having everything exactly in its place annoyed his men, who respected rather than loved him. His obvious competency and heroism in the battles in France won him respect from the Germans, but not from his Spanish allies. General Julio Cordoba was many things, but diplomatic was not one of them. He’d already clashed with Becker on many occasions, from strategy to command supremacy. Franco’s insistence on Cordoba holding overall command was… galling; the Spanish believed way too much in élan, in launching bold stokes against overwhelming odds.

“What are those bloody troops doing?” He snapped, as the African forces advanced. Recruited from Spain’s former possessions, they had been imbrued with a hatred of the British. “We haven’t softened them up yet!”

Cordoba’s German was spoken with a strong accent; Becker, who found it infuriating, suspected that the Spaniard did it on purpose. “We have to recover the fortress,” he said. “They have volunteered to accomplish Spain’s destiny.”

Given that Spain had been very quiet on the subject until Germany turned the screws, Becker glared at him. “They’ll be shot to bits,” Becker snapped, as the forces entered the neutral ground. “They’ll be wiped out for nothing.”

Cordoba shrugged. Becker suddenly realised that that was the point; the Africans had proven less and less tractable when Morocco had fallen to the British, and, unlike the Germans or even the French, the Spanish feared their servants as much as they loved them, perhaps more. The Africans had terrorised the Republicans; it was irony indeed that they were now terrorising their masters.

“Make a note of the enemy gun position,” Becker muttered to his aide. There had been so much movement over Gibraltar in the last week – Becker cursed the person who had kept putting back the attack – that it was impossible to tell where the defences were. Apart from a handful of air raids, there had been no attempt to interfere with the German build up.

“Jawohl, Herr General,” the aide muttered back.

A tongue of fire lashed out, slashing across the African troops. There was a long terrifying noise, worse than the machine guns of the Great War. The African troops were slaughtered; only two survived to crawl back to the Spanish lines.

“I told you so,” Becker muttered. Cordoba ignored him. “May I open fire, Sir Don?”

Cordoba glared at him. “Pound them into the dirt,” he demanded. “We must recover the fortress!”

Becker lifted his flare gun and fired a red flare into the air. There was a long pause, and then the guns fired as one. There was a half-second pause, and then explosions blossomed on the side of the rock.

“How long will it take?” Cordoba demanded. “How long until we should attack again?”

It was on the tip of Becker’s tongue to tell him to lead the attack in person. “Wait a while,” he said finally. “We have to soften them up first.”

The shockwaves ran through the rock, shells falling without precision. General Flynn nearly fell as a shell landed nearby; nothing in his life had prepared him for the intensity of such a bombardment. The shells that the Royal Artillery deployed were precision weapons; nothing like the semi-random shooting from the German guns.

“The towns on fire,” Tom reported. “We’re triggering the smoke bombs now.”

Flynn nodded. “Do we have good locations on their weapons now?”

Tom tapped the computer. “Yes, sir,” he said. “They’re bunched up, firing in groups.”

Flynn scowled. It was a pity that he had only a handful of precision shells; he could have really messed up the attacking force. “Transmit the location to the guns and order them to open fire.”

“Yes, sir,” Tom said. “They’re firing now.” The rock shuddered again. “Sir, we just lost the automated machine guns.”

“So my opposite number isn’t a total idiot,” Flynn said. “Fortunately, we left mines there as well.”

The explosion shattered a concentration of Bruno heavy guns, and then splashed molten metal onto a Spanish position. Becker threw himself to the ground as three more shells landed neatly on other positions, concentrating on the German guns. The Spanish guns kept firing, but they were older Italian weapons, not modern German guns.

“They’re shooting back,” Cordoba shouted. Becker glared at him. “They don’t have guns facing this way!”

“And you’re surprised?” Becker asked. “Did you think that they would sit back and wait for you to slit their throats?” He waved a hand at the guns. “Keep firing!”

“I’m calling the air force,” Cordoba said. “They can bomb the guns like we did in Madrid.”

“Suicide,” Becker snapped, and gave up. The Spanish could do what they liked. “Spread the guns out,” he shouted at his remaining gunners. “Then start firing again!”

He lifted his binoculars and stared across at the rock. The town was on fire and the airstrip had been heavily hit. The slopes that had hidden the guns that had slaughtered the African troopers were burning; hopefully the dreaded weapons had been killed. The Spanish, wonder of wonders, were concentrating their fire there; hopefully there were too many Spanish guns for the British to kill.

An explosion blasted a Spanish position apart, and Becker started to wonder. Could the British hold the fortress, or not? Did they intend to hold it?

Flying Officer Mick Eccleston wasn’t fond of the Harrier. While Harrier units had performed well in the Battles over Britain, possessing a manoeuvrability that the faster Eurofighter lacked, they were only just capable of outrunning a German aircraft. Several Harriers had been swarmed by German attackers, their pilots torn to shreds by German bullets before they could escape or blast their way through the German formation.

Still, the Harrier had one great advantage; it could be flown from almost anywhere. The Spanish air force in Morocco had been destroyed on the ground, although a handful of German-built planes had fled to Spain, and the Harriers had moved in. The RAF understood Harrier tactics; the planes had been flown in off a converted Contemporary aircraft carrier and landed at the shack-like airfield.

Eccleston grinned suddenly. You would never see a high-class dame like the Eurofighter slumming it on the airfield, which had been barely capable of handing the World War One-era junk that the Spanish had used to patrol their colonies, but the Harrier wasn’t proud. At a pinch, the ground crew could take over a clearing and convert it into a miniature airport.

Still, the Eurofighter would have been at Gibraltar by now, and the Harrier was still lumbering its way over the sea. Ahead, smoke was rising, and the squadron adjusted its course to avoid the smog and the shells that were raining down on Gibraltar, close-in support would have been difficult under the circumstances. The squadron had its own orders, and Eccleston jinked west as they came in over the mainland.

“Hawk-one, we have Spanish fighters,” the AWACS controller said. The RAF had flatly refused to base an AWACS in Morocco – they’d made enough of a fuss about the one that was currently en route to Australia – but one was orbiting near Spain’s west coast, supported by tankers and a swarm of Eurofighters. Its orders were to cut and run if the Spanish detected it, which was supposed to be impossible.

“Acknowledged,” Eccleston said, checking the telemetry. The Spanish flying death traps were trying to intercept them without the benefit of radar, spreading out in hopes of catching sight of the Harriers. He considered; a gun engagement could save weapons, but they Harriers were weighed down by the other weapons they were carrying, and the Spanish might manage to hit them.

“Hawk-one, they’re altering course,” the AWACS said. Eccleston swore to himself; the Spanish had guessed their target and were moving to cover it. That was bad; even the SAS team nearby would be unable to save them, should they have to land in Spain. All of the pilots had been issued suicide pills, a quiet acknowledgement that rescue was unlikely.

“Hawks, choose your partners, and prepare to dump them,” he said. He glanced down once at the display, checking to ensure that there were no duplications. “Fox two!”

The Harrier shuddered once as it released an ASRAAM missile. In the growing light, the stream of fire behind the missile seemed somehow eerie, streaming out towards the enemy planes, which had no idea what was coming. The other planes fired, launching missiles that followed Eccleston’s missile, carrying death ahead of them. Eccleston watched dispassionately as the Spanish planes vanished from the radar, never knowing up until the end of their approaching doom.

“We confirm a total victory,” the AWACS said. Eccleston ignored him as Cadiz came in over the horizon, the Spanish Navy’s main port. The targeting sensor began to blink, reporting that it was detecting the pinpoint of laser light on the Spanish cruiser El Cid. The other Harriers followed, locating their individual targets and jinking as bursts of anti-aircraft fire began to explode near them.

“Bombs away,” Eccleston called, and released the bombs. The American-designed weapons were designed to penetrate bunkers armoured with techniques that would not be invented for years to come. They would make short work of the Spanish cruisers. An explosion blossomed upwards as a cruiser was torn apart, another followed, and another. Systematically, the entire Spanish navy and merchant marine was being destroyed, shattered beyond repair.

“Time to go home, boys and girls,” he said, as the Harriers retreated, leaving behind burning ships and oil dumps. The radar reported more Spanish fighters and he considered staying to fight, but changed his mind. The mission had been accomplished, completely without loss.

“I wonder what dad – my dads – would say,” he thought. Discovering that his father had a duplicate, a young man who’d served in North Africa, had been astonishing. He glanced down at the radar again and smiled; the Spanish were keeping their distance.

Private Harry Adama ducked low in the trench as the shells slammed into the rock, spreading tremors through the rock. Half of the bunkers had already been destroyed; the airstrip had been smashed beyond repair, including the helicopter that was supposed to be carrying some of the defenders out.

“They’re advancing again,” he muttered into his radio, subvocalising out of habit and training. Under the noise of the bombardment, the Spanish would be unlikely to notice if he’d shouted it.

“Understood,” General Flynn said. “Can you trigger the mines?”

Adama looked down at the small console in his hand. “Yes, sir,” he said. “Time detonation?”

“Yes, please,” Flynn said. Adama hit the button and for good measure stamped on the console. Its automated system took over and it burst into flames. As Adama slipped through the trench, more explosions blasted out, slaughtering Spanish soldiers with ease.

“The mines are detonating,” Adama began, and then the shells started to land again. The Germans were walking the shells over the minefield, triggering or destroying the mines as the Spanish advanced forward. Adama cowered in the trench, wondering if it would end, when it did. Picking himself up, he started to climb up, and then fell down.

Shit, he thought, as he saw the advancing Spaniard. The soldier swept round, lifting a rifle, and Adama shot him between the eyes. A second Spaniard appeared, tossing an old style grenade towards Adama, and he winced, slamming a hand down on the detonation pack in his bag. Goodbye, he thought, and then the darkness claimed him.

Cordoba gabbled in Spanish, but Becker ignored him, staring at the explosion that had devastated the entire prow of the rock. The fifth attempt to take the fortress by storm had failed; the explosion had just wiped out five hundred Spanish troopers, all of whom had been on the brink of success. If the British had deployed more of their miracle shells, the battle might have been lost.

“Continue firing,” he said, and glared at the collection of ammunition. The British hadn’t targeted his bunkers, which at least had kept his ammunition supplies intact, and there were fewer guns to pound the fortress, but he knew that he would soon run out of shells. The Spanish air force had tried to attack, but they had just been hacked out of the sky, and the news from Cadiz had been terrifying. Dozens of targets across Spain had been hit, snarling the Spanish transport and communications network, despite the best that the Spanish could do.

“Launch another attack,” Cordoba howled, as news of yet another air strike came though. Cordoba was desperate; Spain had to get something from the war, or there would be a second uprising. “Onwards to glory.”

Poor brave stupid idiots, Becker thought, as the Spanish ranks reformed and plunged into the maelstrom. A black-robed Spanish priest was with them, trying to rouse tempers for a holy war, but the sullen attitude of the troops was depressing. They knew the odds, even if their leader refused to accept them.

Flynn had lost track of time, lost track of anything, but the advancing Spanish over the isthmus. The devastated town could not put up a fight, but the Spanish were advancing carefully, blasting anywhere that looked suspicious. The Germans were howling at them to take the dockyards – carefully ruined and sabotaged – but the Spanish ignored them. The special detachment might not be quite SAS-grade, but the experience of ten years fighting fanatical enemies had trained them well for copying their techniques.

“We could have made a real fight for this place,” he said, and shook his head. He understood the logic, understood that Britain could not risk a constant running sore, but it galled him to surrender, even temporarily. Franco had already been punished; the rock would become British again, but for the moment…

“It’s time to leave,” he said. The staff didn’t argue, they closed the computers and headed for the egress shaft. In 2015, there was a tunnel to Morocco, but that didn’t exist in 1940. Instead, a submarine would pick them up from the docks.

“The self-destruct system is activated and awaits your command code,” Tom said, before he headed out. Flynn nodded and headed over to the final console; the prompt was already blinking. Quickly, he typed in the code and ran for the shaft. Behind him, a series of explosions shattered all of the 2015 technology, keeping its secrets safe from the Germans.

It was 2023hrs. Becker was surprised; he’d expected a more lengthy siege. Already, the final positions on the Rock were being taken, overrun by the Spanish troopers. Franco, on Radio Madrid, was already proclaiming a great victory, notwithstanding the nearly five thousand soldiers and the complete destruction of the Spanish Navy. The entire battle had lasted less than a day.

“Oh, shit,” someone said. Becker looked up; a final round of explosions were blossoming on the Rock, destroying anything that might have been useful, including the technology he’d been ordered to capture. For a crazy moment, the blasts grew so large he wondered if the entire rock was going to be destroyed, before they finally faded.

“The Rock is ours,” Cordoba said. “The General will be pleased.”

Becker stared at the ruined town. “I hope he’s happy with it,” he said finally.